


The Last Resort

by Maiden_of_Asgard



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Choking, F/M, Fake Marriage, Outdoor Sex, Partners to Lovers, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Undercover Missions, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26828449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_Asgard/pseuds/Maiden_of_Asgard
Summary: Pretending to be a ditzy newlywed smitten with rising crime lord Mitya Volkov is difficult, to say the least. What’s more difficult? Not actually falling for Bucky Barnes - your partner who’s portraying Mitya Volkov - in the process.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 28
Kudos: 301





	The Last Resort

"If you touch my food one more time, you're gonna have one less hand."

“Choice words, Barnes, don’t you think?” you reply, looking right in those stern blue eyes of his as you lean across the picnic table to snag another chili and cheese-drenched fry off of his plate. “Besides, we’re supposed to look casual, and you snapping at me over fries isn’t something young lovey-dovey couples do.”

“I never should’ve agreed to this mission,” he mutters, and he swipes a generous spoonful of your ice cream in retribution. “I’m supposed to be a silent assassin, not some kind of—”

“Oh, boy,” you cheerfully interrupt, “looks like it’s time to check into our hotel room,  _ babe _ .”

You stand and leave the table, and Bucky Barnes follows behind you like a menacing shadow - a menacing shadow wearing Bermuda shorts and carrying a bright red tray with the remnants of your post-flight snack. “I don’t see why we had to do a layover,” he says. “We’re wasting time.”

“You could try to look at the positives. Seriously, when was the last time you were on a vacation?”

“It isn’t a vacation.”

“Today could at least be a mini-vacation. We aren’t on the island yet. You can loosen up a little. It’ll be good to practice. Get in character, soldier.”

“Character? My  _ character _ is a crime lord.”

“A young, flashy crime lord who’s on his honeymoon.” You wave your hand in his face. “You put a ring on it. A  _ fancy _ one. Stands to reason that you’d be paying attention to me.”

He glances at it. “That’s not the one I would’ve picked,” he says. 

“No? You’ve got an opinion about it?”

“I’d go for something more classic.”

“Yeah? You should’ve helped them pick it out, then.”

Barnes lets out a short laugh. “Not exactly in my job description. I’m sure S.H.I.E.L.D. will want it back once the mission is over, anyway.”

“Spoilsport.”

You’re assuming they paired you up with Barnes for this assignment in the hopes that you could make him appear a little less…  _ cold.  _ You don’t know how he expects to cozy up to any big-time criminals if he stands around glowering all day like some sort of avenging demon. He tolerates you, at least. He isn’t so friendly with everyone else. So, it falls to you to smile and chatter and act like as stereotypical a newlywed as possible as you check into the hotel. You joke around with the guy who helps cart the luggage up to your room, and Barnes is left visibly annoyed.

He leans against the door, fixing you with a  _ look.  _ You don’t know exactly how you’d describe it, but it’s stern, and it kind of makes you feel things that aren’t entirely professional. “Overselling it a little, don’t you think?”

“I’m just a fun person. People like to talk to me. Go figure, right?” You haul your suitcase up onto the foot of the bed and battle with the zipper. “Dibs on the bed.”

“No.”

You’re aghast. “What? But I called dibs!”

“I didn’t get to actually sleep in a bed for decades, so…”

“I asked if we should get a room with two twin beds, and you said  _ no— _ ”

“No, our  _ handlers _ said no. Remember? The ones who wanted you to be in-character? Pretty sure you were just complaining about us not being  _ in-character.”  _ He stretches out on the bed and sighs, the picture of contentment. 

“I’ll fight you for it,” you say. “Toss a coin?”

“Nope,” he replies, and you think you even catch a glimpse of a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I’m too rich and ruthless to sleep on the floor. It’s part of the cover.”

You put your hands on your hips. “Well, we’re sharing it, then.”

He doesn’t reply. 

You drag your suitcase into the bathroom to shower and change. The two of you have to be up horribly early to catch the boat to the island resort where you’re going to be fake-honeymooning, and you figure you better get a good night’s sleep. When you step out, Barnes is already under the covers, flipping aimlessly through cable channels. 

“Please tell me you aren’t wearing your clothes from the plane in bed.  _ Please.”  _ You notice, then, that his pants are neatly folded on the dresser by the TV. A little warm flush spreads up your chest. Maybe you would be better off if he did wear all of his clothes to bed. “How many alarms should I set?”

“One. I’m a light sleeper.”

“Okay. You’re in charge of making sure we don’t oversleep, then, because I’m the opposite of a light sleeper.”

“Great quality for an agent.”

“We can’t all be super-soldiers, Barnes,” you reply, bustling around the room without any real purpose. You can tell he’s watching you. You’re going to have to climb into bed with him eventually, so you might as well get to it. “I’m already looking forward to coffee in the morning. I hate getting up early.”

“You’re a nervous talker. That’s something you might want to work on, if you’re going to make a career out of espionage.”

You bristle. “Excuse you, but I have several successful field assignments under my belt already. Talking puts people at-ease.”

“It’s not putting me at-ease,” Barnes says. 

“Fine, fine,” you reply, and you scoot beneath the covers of the bed. “Goodnight.”

He turns out the light. “Goodnight.”

* * *

He’s spooning you. Bucky Barnes is  _ spooning _ you, and unless he went to sleep with a gun in his pocket, he’s enjoying it, too. You bite your lip in apprehension and risk a little experimental hip-wiggle. He grunts, and his arm tightens around your waist. Your skin is on fire. How are you supposed to sleep with him crushing you to his chest? 

_ Might as well enjoy it.  _ It isn’t like you get to be cuddled by a super-dangerous, super-attractive man every night. In fact, you can’t remember the last time you got cuddled at all. You’re irritated by the realization that he smells nice, despite the fact that he didn’t bother to shower before bed.  _ Unfair.  _ You almost -  _ almost _ \- wished that you’d put on some cuter PJs before bed. Your suitcases are packed with all sorts of expensive, pretty little outfits for your ‘cover,’ and it wouldn’t hurt to get in-character…

His arm is heavy. Being crushed against him is nice, though, in an odd way. You feel small and safe. Your body relaxes. You’ve been carrying so much tension for days, despite your best attempts to ignore it. 

Truth be told, you’re worried about the assignment. Normally, you aren’t sent out to deal with high-stakes, high-risk intelligence operations. There’s a decent chance that you might get yourself killed if you mess up. From the reports you’ve studied, the men that Barnes will be attempting to cozy up with during your exclusive island resort stay are the kind of men who’d likely send you both back to S.H.I.E.L.D. in pieces. Usually, only your job is in danger if you get burned, not your life. 

Hell, you’re still excited about it, though. This is some movie-level spy stuff, and if you do come back with some key intel, you’ll probably get a solid promotion and the chance to handpick your future assignments and partners. Barnes shifts in his sleep, pressing more firmly against your back. You make a pleased little hum that you’re glad he can’t hear. 

You’ve already started to get a good idea about which partner you’d handpick for your next mission. 

* * *

Barnes shakes you awake in the morning with a hand on your hip. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. We’ve got a semi-secret luxury resort to infiltrate.” There’s a distinct sleepy rasp to his voice, and it sends little shivers all the way down to your toes. “Think we can snag breakfast before the helicopter?”

You roll out of bed, ungainly and half-asleep. You try not to look back at Agent Barnes, who’s still stretched out on his side beneath the thin hotel sheet, far more enticing than he has any right to be. “We should have time to get something, but I’m not going to eat. I freakin’ hate helicopters. I’ll just end up getting sick. And don’t you dare say anything about that making me a bad agent.”

He holds up his hands - you see him do it, of course, because you’ve failed to avoid sneaking one last, longing glance at him and the bed. “I said nothing.”

Barnes goes off hunting for bagels while you get dressed. It’s early, but your heart is already racing. Today is the day. You’re on the verge of meeting some very sinister, dangerous people, and if you don’t pull off the ‘naive newlywed’ vibe well enough, you could get both of you killed.  _ No pressure.  _ You splash cold water on your face.  _ Don’t think like that. You’re trained. You’re tough. You’re quick on your feet. Whatever he might say, Barnes wouldn’t have agreed to come on this assignment if he thought you were too big of a liability. It’ll be fine. And he had to do most of the actual work, so focus on the free vacation part. It’ll be fine.  _

You put on one of the outfits you jokingly dubbed your ‘uniforms’ when the wardrobe team presented them to you. They’re a far cry from typical S.H.I.E.L.D. agent attire, and they cost a hell of a lot more, too. Florals everywhere. Expensive fabrics, bright colors, jewelry… it’s like being a character in a movie. You’re determined to make the most of it, even if it’s out of your usual comfort zone. 

By the time you’re done getting ready, Barnes is back with his bagel and a huge cup of coffee, which he passes to you without comment. It’s perfect. “What, is my coffee order in my file?” you ask. 

“No,” he says. “I just noticed how you ordered it yesterday.”

Part of you hopes that it’s his own strange way of discreetly flirting with you. Part of you wouldn’t know what to do if he  _ was  _ flirting with you. “Thanks.”

“Do you have everything packed? We’ve gotta go.”

“Ready whenever you are, soldier.”

The two of you climb into a sleek black car to get chauffeured to the tiny airport where the helicopter awaits. You exchange some friendly chatter with the driver, while your faux-beau stays stern and silent beside you. Barnes puts his hand on your knee and squeezes it possessively at one point, and after that, you find it hard to focus on anything else. You know he’s just showing off his machismo to get into his role, but it sure feels like he’s actually eager to show the world that you’re with him. It leaves you with a nice little warm glow in your chest.  _ Must be lookin’ pretty fine today.  _

It’s nice to have that reassurance, because five-in-the-morning-you never feels particularly  _ fine _ . You feel like your head is full of cobwebs; you definitely weren’t lying when you told Barnes you aren’t a morning person. The glow lasts all the way to the helicopter, and then your confidence bottoms out.  _ Stupid helicopters.  _

You’re a bundle of nerves as it takes off. Bucky Barnes holds your hand. When turbulence makes you flinch, he squeezes your fingers. He doesn’t try to say anything, and he doesn’t smile, but he holds your hand until the helicopter is back on the ground.  _ Perks of being a fake-wife.  _ Hand-holding makes helicopters considerably more bearable. You’ll have to make a note of that for next time. 

After the helicopter comes a much more enjoyable ride via boat, and before you know it, you’re stepping onto the dock, more intimidated than you’d anticipated by the lush, vibrantly green jungle that covers the small island. Waves lap against the white sand of the beach.  _ Waves as blue as Barnes’s eyes,  _ you think, and then you mentally slap yourself. It has to be an effect of the scenery. That’s all it is. It’s a romantic, thrilling destination, so you’re feeling romantic and thrilled.  _ Totally normal.  _

Work-crushes are totally normal, too. 

You turn to find Barnes waiting for you a little further up the dock, irritation plain on his face. He holds out a hand and snaps his fingers, and while your first reaction is to roll your eyes, you realize that the porters are watching as they load your luggage onto a cart. You crank up a winning smile and practically sashay over to take his hand, a startled little  _ ‘oh’ _ escaping your when he pulls you close enough to put his arm around your waist. 

The island isn’t on any public maps, so the armed guards patrolling the treeline near the beach don’t really surprise you. Half the people here are rich, eccentric, and just generally paranoid about privacy, and the other half are rich and actively avoiding law enforcement. There’s no turning back now.  _ Deep breaths. Think professional, calm thoughts.  _

You pass beneath a marble archway, upon which is engraved only two words:  _ LAST RESORT _ . You can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a tongue-in-cheek joke, or if the management is just incredibly literal. The island itself doesn’t even  _ have _ a name. The reflection off of the sand is blinding, forcing you to squint when you glance back to the boat. 

“Having second thoughts, sweetheart?” Barnes says softly, dropping easily into an unidentifiable accent that sounds vaguely Eastern European for the sake of any keen ears nearby. 

“Never,” you reply, your smile so saccharine that you hope Bucky Barnes can  _ taste _ it. His answering smile is terse, but he keeps his hand on your back as he helps you into the car that’s waiting to take you and all of your fancy new luggage up the gravel drive to the inner sanctum of the island. You remark on the bright, colorful birds you see as the car passes through thick forest, and you let out a truly genuine gasp of delight when you spy a bright purple flower that’s larger than your head. “So pretty,” you coo. “How lovely. Look, dear.”

Barnes glances over and nods. “Lovely,” he says. 

_ Come on, loosen up, soldier, _ you think. That smile is still plastered on your face. Being bubbly and overly effusive about everything is starting to make your cheeks ache. “So  _ romantic _ .”

He doesn’t respond, but the look he gives you sends little electric sparks down your spine.  _ Danger, don’t tease the Winter Soldier,  _ half of your brain warns. The other half is eager to know what he’d do if you keep it up.  _ The way those strong arms bound you to him last night… _ You fan your face; the burning in your skin can only be partly attributed to the island’s heat. The rest of the blame lies solely with James Buchanan Barnes. 

A grand resort hotel stands beside a green lagoon towards the interior of the island. Everything you see is an interesting combination of sleek, modern tech and old-fashioned charm, with fresh coats of pale pastel paint covering the stucco walls of the various outbuildings. You’re surprised to see families with young children picnicking on the shore of the lagoon - but then, even powerful and dangerous men can have families, can’t they?

A live band plays on a pavilion near the entrance of the hotel, all of its members impeccably dressed and seemingly impervious to the heat and humidity. The music becomes more jaunty when you pause to listen, and you sway and twirl, genuinely enjoying yourself. The porters continue on their way with the luggage, but Barnes stops and watches you for a minute or two, then pulls out his wallet and drops two hundreds in the open guitar case sitting on the pavilion steps. 

“What was that for?” you ask as the two of you step into the lobby, your voice hushed. “I imagine the tip case is more for show, don’t you?”

“You seemed like you were having fun,” he says. “It’s a good way to flash money.” He shrugs. “So, why not?”

You aren’t used to being fawned over, so the attention of the resort staff is overwhelming. They’re helpful, deferential, and have perfected their customer-service smiles to an almost-eerie degree. 

“Mr. Volkov,” a woman with a silver manager badge on her jacket says, “I am so terribly sorry, but your honeymoon suite isn’t ready yet - we expected you later this evening—”

“It is fine,” he interrupts. “I am sure we can find something to keep us occupied. We will need somewhere secure to leave our things.”

The manager practically vibrates with nervous energy. “Of course, Mr. Volkov,” she says, then she turns her smile to you. “We do have a bridal suite, Mrs. Volkov, for the weddings that take place onsite. If you’d like to use it to freshen up while we ready your room, we’d be happy to provide a key.”

You glance at Bucky, but he doesn’t seem to have any strong feelings one way or another. You kind of want him to reassure you that it’s safe to split up. “Um, should I?” 

“Go ahead,” he says, and he pulls you close for a performative kiss on the cheek. “I will be at the bar.”

“We have many excellent bars here at the resort, Mr. Volkov,” the manager says, her expression brightening as she waves to one of the waiting staff. “Jakob, please see that Mr. Volkov wants for nothing. Mrs. Volkov, if you’ll follow me?”

The manager relaxes quite a bit when  _ Mr. Volkov _ is no longer in view, and you decide to start working on gleaning any info you can from the resort staff. After a little friendly prying, she admits to you that there was an ‘incident’ last night that left a ‘bit of a mess’ on the same hall as the honeymoon suite. “I’m of the opinion that it would provide a substandard guest experience,” she says, “if you were to have to listen to the repair and cleaning crew. They have assured me that they will be finished and gone without a trace within the next few hours, but again, I must apologize for the inconvenience.”

“No worries. Honestly? I’m glad for the chance to rest. We had an early flight, and I’d kind of like to dress up a little to surprise my husband for dinner.”

“Lovely,” she says. “We have a cozy terrace restaurant overlooking the lagoon; it’s very romantic, especially when the sun begins to set. Shall I book you a table?”

“Yes, please,” you reply. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Good, good.” She shows you onto the suite and apologizes once more for the inconvenience, and you wonder what kind of wild stories S.H.I.E.L.D. must have spread about one Mr. Mitya Volkov to have the staff so worried about him before he’s even had the chance to  _ do _ anything yet. You saw a guy sitting by the lobby fountain whose file back at headquarters said that he’d very openly burned a warehouse full of one of his rivals’ men alive, so the gossip must be impressive, if they think Bucky is intimidating compared to  _ that.  _

You flip open one of your suitcases and hang up a garment bag, unzipping it to peruse its contents.  _ Too many options.  _ It’s down to a Givenchy silk dress that’s covered with a very vacation-appropriate floral pattern, or a Balenciaga  _ thing _ that honestly looks more like a short cape than an actual dress. You should’ve paid more attention to wardrobe when they were designing the perfect  _ look _ to complete your new persona; maybe you could’ve convinced them to throw in some sundresses from Old Navy. 

The bridal suite has a minbar and fridge equipped with appealing glass bottles of rosé and fruity flavored vodka. You wonder if the last batch of bridesmaids cleared everything else out. You grab a bottle of some kind of sparkling water, instead. It’s not like you need to brace yourself for your wedding day, after all, because you managed to get ‘married’ without even having a wedding day. 

You and Barnes both have plenty of wedding photos on your respective phones to prove otherwise, if anyone were to get ahold of them. Half of them were taken in a studio a week before you left New York, and the other half are shopped. You did get to wear a borrowed Zuhair Murad dress that made you feel like an absolute princess for three hours, though. And there was a ‘prop’ cake that was pretty delicious, too. 

The bathroom makes you feel like you’re drowning in rose gold and marble, but you’re kind of enjoying the vibe. A luxurious bubble bath is in order, and you swing back by the minibar as the bathtub fills, then you sink into the blissfully scalding embrace of the water. Barnes is hopefully playing nice, so you figure you’re good to luxuriate for a while. You end up flipping through the photos on your phone. S.H.I.E.L.D. did a frighteningly good job of constructing a fake life for you, right down to the fake engagement photo that you have as your screensaver. Barnes looks handsome and brooding in almost all of them, though a rare smile appears here and there. 

He has a nice laugh, actually. You haven’t seen it often, but it’s mesmerizing when it manages to slip through the cracks. You notice for the first time that he’s got a hint of a smile in one of the photos where you’re downing a slice of your fake-wedding cake, and it gives you pause.  _ What if it was all real?  _ Though, it’s important to remember that this fake-life you’re getting all moony over also involves being married to crime lord Mitya Volkov, not Bucky Barnes. 

_It’s day one. Better save the daydreaming for the plane ride back to New York,_ you muse, wiggling your toes. _If I make it to that point,_ _I think I’ll have earned a little indulgent daydreaming._

You decide on the floral Givenchy, and you settle in front of the largest of the vanities in the dressing room to fiddle with your hair and makeup. Barnes is good at his job, which probably means that he’s already befriending some baddies at the bar. That, in turn, means that you’ll have more eyes on you during dinner - he’s a newcomer on the scene, so every second will be scrutinized. 

_ All the world’s a stage.  _

* * *

The manager’s right; the terrace restaurant is amazing at sunset. Music wafts up from the pavilion below, and strings of lights hang overhead. The mood is unexpectedly relaxed. The dinner tables are spread far apart, so while they’re all occupied, it doesn’t seem crowded. You imagine it helps everyone feel more comfortable chatting about all of their illicit activities over appetizers. 

“Have fun without me, sweetheart?” you ask, rubbing your foot against Barnes’s bare calf in the most obvious amount of public PDA that your current self-conscious state can handle. “Meet anyone nice at the bar?”

“I had an interesting conversation or two,” he replies. “Did you have fun playing with your clothes?”

“I sure did.” You bat your eyelashes. He hasn’t moved his leg out of reach, but he isn’t exactly reciprocating, either, and you can’t figure out why. He didn’t seem to mind putting his hands all over you earlier. “What do you think? How do I look?” You bite your lip. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re cute,” Barnes says, “just stop smiling at me like that.”

You bat your eyelashes a little more aggressively, your voice lowering to a whisper. “We’re fake-in-love, I spend three hours on my hair and makeup and finding the perfect little dolled-up newlywed vacation dress, and ‘cute’ is the best you can do?”

He leans across the table, coming dangerously close to toppling your mimosa with his broad chest. That unbuttoned Hawaiian-print shirt is unfairly flattering on him. “Okay, you’re  _ sexy _ , fake-wife,” he tells you under his breath, an unfamiliar glint in his eyes, “and I’m about two seconds away from taking you back to our fake-honeymoon suite. Is that better?.”

Your startled laugh catches in your throat.  _ That’s a smolder. He’s smoldering at me. Where has he been hiding that?  _ “It actually is getting late. We should probably check out the room, do a bug sweep, get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got another early morning tomorrow, right?”

“Sure,” Barnes says, and the look lingers. 

Tension reigns as the two of you make your way to the room, your arm in his. At least he seems to have gotten over whatever funk he’d sunk into while you were away enjoying your bubble bath. “I spoke with Goran,” he murmurs as you step onto the elevator. 

Your smile flickers. “What? Already?”

“He introduced himself at the bar. One of his lieutenants had spoken of me, he said. He is here with family. Wife, son, and one of his daughters.”

“So, maybe he’ll be a little more tame than usual, you think, if the family’s around?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

The singular, king-sized bed in the honeymoon suite has rose petals scattered on it, and there are a few unlit candles on the nightstand, along with a gift basket that looks like it holds wine and chocolate. You clear your throat. “What the hell?”

Barnes picks up the card on the nightstand and scoffs. “Honeymoon suites come with honeymoon amenities, I guess,” he says, the accent completely dropping away as he flips it over to read the back. “Did you know they have a spa here?”

“I’m not exactly surprised. Maybe we can check it out. Or, maybe  _ I _ can check it out while you’re discussing arms deals.” You stretch, letting your silky dress ride up your thighs. “This place doesn’t really make me want to work.”

“Come here,” he says. His voice holds a hard edge, and it sends a delicious shiver racing down your spine. 

“I was just kidding. We should probably set up to—”

“I wasn’t asking,” he interrupts. “Come here.”

You pad around the bed to stand before him, suddenly self-conscious. He looks like he’s seeing right through you, and another little spark of electricity sizzles across your skin. “Yes?” you ask, your voice coming out huskier than you’d expected. You clear your throat again.  _ Damn him.  _ You don’t get  _ flustered.  _ You also don’t let men boss you around, but Barnes… Well, there’s something about him that makes you weak in the knees. 

He turns you around. On the far side of the bed, there’s a wide mirror hung on the wall; you’d commented on it when you first checked into the suite, remarking that they’d probably placed it there to make the room look more spacious. You certainly hadn’t imagined that you’d find yourself looking at your own reflection like this, with Bucky Barnes standing over your shoulder, intently watching every emotion that flickers across your face. 

His hands move around you. Slowly, carefully, he unfastens the top button of your dress. He manages to barely touch you, and as his fingers move down to deftly unfasten the second button, you find yourself fighting the urge to press against his hands. You make an embarrassing half-moan, half-squeak when he momentarily lowers his lips to the sensitive skin just below your ear, and the third button falls victim to his momentary lack of composure. It pings as it hits the floor. 

“Hey,” you say, “careful with the dress. It cost—”

“It’s not like you’re spending your own money,” he says, and you see a hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. 

Breathless, you watch your reflections in the mirror as he unbuttons your dress all the way down to your waist. You feel him tense behind you when he parts the material, revealing your lacy white bra. His fingers curl under the fabric of your dress, dragging against your skin as he opens it wider. You see his eyes lock on the equally-lacy garter belt around your waist, and your cheeks burn. 

“What,” he whispers, “is  _ this _ ?”

“I thought… I thought I should be in-character,” you reply, “in case we get caught and searched. The handlers said that a suitcase full of lingerie would be more…” Your voice fails you; he’s hard and hot and pressing against you, and all you can do is stare at his face in the mirror. 

“More…?”

“Convincing,” you manage to say.

He pulls the dress over your shoulders and slides it past your hips, letting it pool around your ankles. You don’t really know why you decided to go out on full bridal lingerie. When you were getting ready, it had just seemed like a silly opportunity to play some kind of high-stakes dress-up; it’s not like you get to wear expensive, lacy things very often. And, it had added a little confident swagger to your step in the way that only a matching bra and underwear can. Now, you don’t know what to feel. Ridiculous, maybe, but also incredibly sexy, because Bucky Barnes is looking at you like he might just eat you up. 

He hooks a finger under the elastic around your upper thigh and tugs it, then lets it snap back into place. You wince and whimper; everything feels a thousand times more sensitive. “You wore  _ this _ for the mission?”

“Yeah.”

Barnes kisses your shoulder. “ _ Yes, sir _ ,” he murmurs against your skin. 

You let out a shuddering breath. “Yes, sir,” you say, excitement pooling low in your center.  _ That’s a first.  _ You’re folding too easily - no wonder he looks so smug. 

His left hand wraps around your throat. The golden wedding ring on his finger draws all of your attention. “You weren’t planning to show me?”

“No. No, sir.”

“And on our honeymoon?” You can’t see his expression, because his mouth has returned to your neck, but you get the impression that he’s smiling. 

“ _ Fake _ honeymoon,” you remind him, even though your eyes are still glued to the very-real ring on the very-real hand around your throat. 

“I’ve never liked playing pretend,” he says.

“No?” Your voice has taken on a reedy quality that you don’t love; it’s like your whole body has decided to betray you. “You’ve been a secret agent for decades.”

“I kill people and disappear. The skillset isn’t exactly the same.” His grip on your neck tightens fractionally, and he stares you down in the mirror as his right hand squeezes the soft skin above your hip. “I’m impressed by your thoroughness.”

“Well,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light and playful, “you’re my first fake-spouse, so I figured I should give it a solid effort. You’re my first spouse of any variety, actually.  _ Sir _ ,” you add quickly, because despite his amusement, he’s still got that stern glint in his eyes.

“Mine, too,” he says. “Shame that we missed out on the fake wedding night, isn’t it?” He cups your breast, and his thumb traces along the skin just above the lace of your bra. His skin is rough. The man clearly spends a lot of time working with his hands. “I never figured I’d get the chance to settle down.”

“Oh.” It comes out as a little whisper, and your pulse pounds in your veins; you can feel his arousal pressed against your back. You reach up to unfasten your garter belt, but he swats your hands away. 

“Did I tell you to do that?” 

“No, sir.”

“Y’know, they warned me that you weren’t great about sticking to protocol,” he says. “Following orders. Doesn’t seem like you’re that bad at it, to me. Look at me.” Your gaze meets his in the reflection. Your lips part in another shaky sigh as he gives your throat one final squeeze, then slides his hands down to your waist. One holds you firm against him, while the other moves lower. His fingertips follow the edge of the lace, tracing a delicate path between your thighs. 

You whimper. 

“You  _ sure _ you weren’t planning to let me see this?” he teases. His teeth close on your earlobe, but he’s keeping his touch painfully light. He’s  _ toying _ with you. It doesn’t exactly fit with the ‘maximum efficiency’ M.O., and you arch back against him to try to send the message that he should speed things up. He just chuckles. “I asked a question.”

“No, sir.”

He strokes the silky fabric that barely covers your aching heat. He tugs it aside, exposing you to the cool air of the room. Your eyelashes flutter. “Hey, sweetheart, look at me.”

You get lost in the blue. 

Your teeth close on your bottom lip, trying to stifle the sounds you’re inclined to make when he slowly circles the little bud that is currently the focus of your entire universe. Wanton and already exposed as hopelessly eager for him, you press against his fingers, craving more— and then Barnes swats your bottom, and you yelp. 

“You need to learn  _ discipline _ ,” he tells you with infuriating patience. “I bet you hear that a lot, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you sullenly reply. Are you… are you  _ pouting _ ? You don’t  _ pout _ . Except, apparently, in the hands of the man once known as the Winter Soldier, the legendary, handsome blue-eyed assassin… you  _ do _ .

“See, me,” he continues, resuming his slow teasing, “I’m used to not getting what I want. It instills patience.” Two fingers slide along your slit, and your face burns hotter; you’re drenched. It’s not like you can hide it. “Determination.”

When you manage to speak, you barely recognize your own voice. Since when have you had a  _ sultry _ -mode? “But, aren’t newlyweds supposed to go at it like rabbits on the honeymoon?”

He pretends to consider it. “Sure. We’re only fake-newlyweds, though.” His fingers pause at your entrance, and you try not to move.  _ So close.  _ “Do you think it applies to our situation?”

If you don’t get  _ something _ inside of you soon, you’re going to explode. “Yes,” you reply, and when he regards you silently in the mirror, you add a plaintive, “sir.”

He’s clearly got a taste for torture.  _ Bastard,  _ you think, ready to bite his head off when he takes his hands off of you. He’s only unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, though, so you decide to allow it. His bare skin feels even hotter against your back, and there’s a moderate chance that he hears the pleased little sigh you make when his noticeable erection rubs against your ass. You don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes again until he orders you to open them. 

“Nobody finds out about this,” he warns. “Not a single soul. I’m on a tight leash. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”  _ Put me on a tight leash.  _ “Bucky—”

“James.”

You shiver. You know it’s his real name, but you’ve never heard anyone call him that, and it feels…  _ intimate _ . It feels more intimate than calling him ‘sir,’ somehow. “James.”

He bites down lightly on your neck. “Good girl. Not too loud, though; Mitya Volkov probably wouldn’t enjoy his new bride screaming another man’s name. The resort staff might gossip.”

“Screaming?” you ask weakly, and he presses two fingers between your lips before he answers. 

His breath is hot against your neck. Goosebumps spread down your arms. “Screaming,” he assures you, gently squeezing your jaw. He keeps his fingers in your mouth, using his free hand to bring one of your knees up onto the edge of the bed. Apparently, pushing your pretty lingerie out of the way isn’t good enough for him, because as soon as he’s got you positioned to his satisfaction, he tears your lacy underwear out of his way. You’ll probably mourn it later, but right now? Right now, you’d sacrifice every piece of expensive clothing in your undercover wardrobe to have him inside of you. 

And he’s inside you, then, sheathing himself in one fell thrust. You bite down on his fingers; if his skin wasn’t manufactured, you’d probably break through it. You hadn’t gotten a good look at the size of him, but the sudden fullness rides the line between ecstasy and pain. He curses in Russian, clutching you to him to keep you from toppling face-first onto the bed. “ _ Perfect _ ,” he growls, and more muttered obscenities follow. 

You’d be muttering some obscenities, too, if you could say anything at all. He stays still for only a moment, then withdraws fully. He takes his time, and it’s excruciating. You moan around his fingers, and he rewards you with a few shallow thrusts, the head of his cock stretching you just enough to make you crave more. When you try to rock back against him, though, his grip on your jaw tightens. “Don’t be a bad girl,” he tells you. “I don’t let bad girls come.”

The pads of his fingers stroke your tongue, and you suck on them without him needing to tell you to do it. You wonder if he’ll put you on your knees, if he’ll hold you by the hair as he forces you to swallow every last drop of him. A thrill races through you at the idea. The tip of him nudges at your slick entrance, and you bite down harder. He shoves his cock back in with just as much force as the first time, earning a little mewl of approval from deep within your throat. His hips work in shallow circles, like he’s testing to find the right angle to hit all of your most sensitive spots. The scraps of lingerie still clinging to your body feel uncomfortably snug and constricting against your too-sensitive skin.

“I didn’t tell you that you could close your eyes. Open them. Watch.” 

And when you force yourself to focus on your own reflection in the mirror, fire laps at your bones. The exquisite lace and ribbons of your lingerie contrast sharply with your smeared lipstick and the general state of dishevelment that he’s got you in. Your knees feel weak, and you dread the moment he lets you go, because you’re sure you’re going to face-plant on the bed. You cling to his arm for dear life, and he drives himself into you again, somehow reaching even deeper inside of you.

You do scream. It’s more of a pleading, impatient howl, but it’s not a sound you’d ever have expected to come out of your own mouth. “Please,” you beg. “I’m—  _ fuck _ —I’m so close.  _ Please _ .” Your thighs are slick, and with only the gentle hum of the AC in the background, his grunts and your pleading and the filthy, wet sounds of skin against skin overwhelm your senses. You feel like you’re on the verge of shattering into a million white-hot, tiny shards. “Sir,  _ please _ .”

Once he’s in the zone, he’s not a wordy man, and he merely grunts in response. One hand moves between your legs, his fingers working a delicate pace that completely contradicts the brutal rhythm of his hips. Your clit is so sensitive that it hurts, but you still grab his wrist to make sure he doesn’t stop. You don’t fully process whatever you say after that, but he doesn’t slap his hand over your mouth, so you must manage to avoid using his real name, at least.  _ “My girl, _ ” he groans in your ear as you climax, stars bursting behind your eyes. “My good, good girl.”

And, maybe just because you’re actually feeling a little wicked at the moment, you reach behind you and grab a fistful of his hair, enthralled by the way his reflection shows his face twisting in some sort of agonized bliss. He finishes inside you, his hips snapping forward to chase every precious second of this brief moment of shared ecstasy. He holds you against his chest as he comes back down from his high, and you’re too satiated and boneless to want to be anywhere else, really. You wince when he pulls out, and he smooths a hand over your hip as you gracelessly topple the rest of the way onto the bed. 

He looks at you for a minute, silent, tracing aimless patterns on your skin with his fingertips as you pant and stare up at him.  _ Oh, no. We shouldn’t have done this. It’s going to be the most awkward month ever—  _

“Hang on a minute,” he says, and he gets up and goes into the bathroom. You snort. It’s not like you’ve got the energy left to get up and leave. When he comes back a minute later, he’s got a damp washcloth in his hand. 

“What’s that for?”

“Y’know.” He sits down next to you and easily rolls you onto your back. The cloth is warm, but you still shiver as he rubs it up your thigh. “Just… getting ready for bed.”

You’re a pretty independent person. You get uncomfortable when people insist on doing things for you. Yet, you stay perfectly still as he washes you up and carefully unfastens what remains of your unfortunate lingerie. He climbs into bed beside you. You’re completely naked, which strikes you as a little funny, considering you were both still slightly clothed when he decided to fuck you into oblivion. 

“I’ve never really heard you swear before,” he observes, patting your thigh to get you to scoot over so that he can pull the sheets from beneath you. He covers you both up with the thin fabric. “Kinda liked it.”

“Same, but for you.” You want to curl up against him, but you don’t.  _ Let him make the move.  _

“I’m not supposed to be with anyone.”

Your brow furrows. “Like, any coworkers? Neither am I, but I know other agents who have gotten around the rules—”

“No, anyone. Agent or civilian. I’m not an employee. I’m an asset. Half of the board doesn’t believe I’m fully deprogrammed. They need me, but like I said, I’m on a tight leash.” He rests his forearm over his eyes. “We shouldn’t let this become a thing.”

“Oh. ‘Shouldn’t?’”

“We probably will.”

Your breath catches. “Oh.”

“But we  _ shouldn’t _ .”

“I kinda like doing things I shouldn’t, James.”

He sighs. “God, I like it when you call me that.”

“Better than ‘sir?’”

He turns to look at you. “Depends on the situation,” he says. “That was good. Really, really good.” The corner of his lip curls in a smug hint of a smile. “I’ll be disappointed if you can walk straight in the morning.”

“Compromising the mission for the sake of your male pride? Shame, shame,” you tease, and then, because you’re worryingly smitten with him and still a little hypnotized by those hungry blue eyes of his, you finish off with, “sir.”

He takes your hand in his, kissing the knuckle right above your wedding ring. His eyes lock with yours. Your stomach flutters. “I doubt I’ll ever get another chance at anything like this,” he says. “Might as well make the most of it. Don’t you think so?” 

* * *

Crack-of-dawn recon sucks, and not in a fun way. You and Barnes slip out of the hotel early, hoping to plant a few bugs along some of the more secluded paths in the jungle to the immediate north of the resort. There’s a certain spot near a small waterfall that’s rumored to be a favorite spot for some of the island’s visitors to take a little break from paradise and hammer out arms deals. If the intelligence S.H.I.E.L.D. has on the island is accurate, it’s also one of the spots that doesn’t always adhere to the ‘we’re all friends here, no violence, please’ vibe that the rest of the resort seems to have.

“You should be carrying me,” you tell him.

“A nice morning walk will do us both good,” he says, and then he looks you up and down like he’s ready to eat you up. You have the urge to take off running, even though the heels you’re wearing aren’t suited for walking in the jungle, much less running. But, it’s also not like you’d want to get that far before he caught you, anyway.

You look around to make sure nobody’s nearby when you leave the main path, taking a detour along a gravel trail that looks like it’s mainly used as an access point for the resort staff. Between the two of you, it isn’t too hard to strategically plant a few miniscule cameras and mics along the path. Over the next month, you’re probably going to have to do the same thing so often that it’ll be a breeze. You take a turn when the path splits, following the trail that looks more well-worn. The jungle gets thicker, and the air does, too, but the scenery is so pretty that you don’t really mind.

“Dead end,” Barnes says.  _ Barnes _ . Not Bucky, certainly not  _ James _ . Just Barnes, because this is work, and you’re trying to pretend that you’re totally professional and cool about everything and aren’t already daydreaming of the next chance you’ll get to have him pin you down and fuck you senseless.

“Cigarette butts and bottles. You think this is the spot the tough guys come to when they’re tired of building sandcastles with the kids and pretending to be normal family men?”

“Maybe.” He wedges a button-sized camera into a crack in the bark of one of the trees. “Guess we’ll find out.”

You’re heading back the way you’d come when you hear voices and crunching gravel. There are at least two men approaching from the south - maybe more. “Oh, crap,” you whisper. “Damn it. Someone’s coming. We’ve got no excuse—”

But Bucky Barnes, in typical fashion, prefers action to discussion, interrupting you to pin you up against the nearest tree that has reasonably smooth bark. He smothers your questioning squeak with a deep kiss, and when he comes up for air, he murmurs, “Remember, my name is Mitya.” He hooks a hand under one of your knees, hoisting you up so that you can wrap a leg around his waist. He’s quick and efficient, unlike that first night in the honeymoon suite. 

You’re still reeling and trying to figure out how exactly this is supposed to  _ solve _ anything as he yanks your underwear out of the way. He dampens the pad of his fingertip with his tongue, then kisses you again as he gently circles your clit. “Oh,  _ good _ girl,” he purrs, finding you already slick. “Always ready for me.”

_ Pretty sure this isn’t an agency-approved way of maintaining our cover,  _ you think, but then his hand is around your throat, and you automatically reply with a breathless, “Yes, sir.” Your body clearly wasn’t fooled by your weak attempts to think pure thoughts this morning.

You wrap your arms around his neck, and he kisses the corner of your mouth. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart.”

You never would’ve pegged yourself as someone with an exhibition kink, but as he makes love to you against a tree - because it really is more tender, somehow, than the rough fucking in the hotel suite - you realize that the thrill of potentially being seen is intoxicating. You’re a huge fan of all of the kissing, too; for someone who claims that he’s decades out of practice with romance, the man knows how to kiss. Hopefully, he’s going to incorporate more of that in the future, because as much as you love being manhandled, you’re convinced that being able to bite his lip when you come makes the whole experience so much  _ better.  _

Perspiration collects on his face. It’s hot and humid out in the lush jungle, and if you’re being honest, he’s the one doing most of the work. You’re just kind of… clinging to him, enjoying the afterglow of the quickest orgasm you’ve ever achieved in your life. He looks startled, and maybe even a little perturbed. “That was too fast,” he says. “You’ll have to do it again.”

“What?” you cry, but he’s relentless, and your protests of oversensitivity fall away into needy little whines and open-mouthed, guttural groans. His grip on your thigh tightens almost painfully. You’re still sore from last night, too, and you start to wonder if it’s the kind of delicious ache that’ll never really go away. You’re beyond being able to put together a coherent sentence.

The sounds of crunching gravel and male voices filter through the lusty haze.  _ This is it.  _ You’re about to get caught having passionate newlywed sex in a freaking jungle - by conspiring mobsters, most likely - and the worst part is that you aren’t even mortified enough to decide that this plan isn’t a great idea.  _ Maybe it is a good idea,  _ the wilder side of your brain suggests.  _ Better to be fucked than to be burned, right? If we’re burned now, we’re dead. _

“Mitya,” you moan, yanking at the hair on the nape of Barnes’s neck so that you have better access to leave a nice, conspicuous hickey on his throat. There’s no reason to keep quiet; you’re trying to make it look like you’re not very good at being sneaky, so you figure you might as well let loose. “Mitya, darling.” You kiss him hard, and he finishes inside of you, and he squeezes your throat and leans back to watch your face as you shudder and slide into a second climax, just as the men round the bend in the path.

They exclaim their surprise and startled apologies as they make a hasty retreat. You don’t even get a good look at them, because Barnes has you completely covered with his own body. Mortification washes over you.  _ That’s okay, _ you tell yourself.  _ That’s part of the cover. You’re supposed to be embarrassed. You just got seen banging your husband against a tree. At sunrise. Work with it. _

You step back onto the path and make a show of smoothing out your dress as you round the corner.  _ Poor dress.  _ It really wasn’t made for these conditions. Barnes doesn’t have the decency to look even slightly chagrined as you come into sight of the other men, though. If anything, he looks pretty proud of himself. There’s an alluring swagger to his step. At least he’s finally loosening up. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he says, sounding not at all sorry, “for disturbing your morning walk.”

One of the men laughs. “I think we are more sorry to have disturbed you, Volkov,” he says. “Two lovebirds, yes?”

“You know me? I do not know you,” Barnes says, even though it’s a lie; you recognize both of them from the stacks of files you read about Goran and his associates. “Formal introductions, then. Mitya Volkov.” He shakes hands with them, and your cheeks burn at the thought of where those hands have just been. “And, of course, the new Mrs. Mitya Volkov.”

“Nikita Veznikov, and my less-handsome friend here is Mayrbek.”

A quick exit is essential. “Sweetheart,” you say, taking Barnes’s arm, “I’m… um, I’m going to need to shower and change before breakfast.” You don’t have to worry about lying convincingly, at least, because you really  _ do _ need to get cleaned up. You’ve got supersoldier-seed running down your thighs, and you clamp your legs together and try to plaster a winning smile on your face. 

Bucky Barnes actually  _ smirks.  _ “Anything you need, darling,” he replies. He nods to the two men, then steers you away with a hand on the small of your back. Your legs wobble, and you pretend to fix one of your heels to give you the opportunity to glance back. Nikita and Mayrbek carry on with their walk, apparently adequately convinced that you weren’t up to anything suspicious, and you’re especially relieved when you catch the glimpse of a gun tucked beneath Mayrbek’s fluttering hibiscus-print shirt. 

“You need to kiss me more,” you begin without preamble. You figure it’s a safe topic of discussion, even if you’re overheard. “You were holding out on me,  _ Mitya _ .”

“I think we can probably work something out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna go ahead and admit to y'all right now that this is supposed to be a one-shot, but I already have ideas to make it longer... as always :')


End file.
